


The Deep Dark

by Cup_aTea



Category: Inception (2010), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Dream States, Hurt/No Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Phil Coulson's family - Freeform, Poor choices, i accidentally all the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cup_aTea/pseuds/Cup_aTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint wakes up with a jolt and a gasp.  He's alone in the apartment. Of course he's alone.  Just because he dreamed about Phil, didn't mean anything had changed.  It didn't bring him back.</p><p>Clint sighs and thinks about going back to bed, but sleep is a lost cause.  It always is after he dreams of Phil.  And he always dreams of Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tu Dois Rappeler Ton Rêves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/360231) by [lucdarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/pseuds/lucdarling). 
  * Inspired by [Joy & Malloy's Boys](https://archiveofourown.org/works/463501) by [sottovoce81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sottovoce81/pseuds/sottovoce81). 



> This idea has been bouncing around my head for a while. It's not a very happy one. I apologize for that. It's unbeta'd so please let me know if you find a mistake.

Clint’s in the kitchen and he’s cooking.  It’s dark outside, and the lights are a warm yellow in the little kitchen.  The carrots and celery are simmering in the pot, almost soft enough to add the meat.  He’s cooking, but that’s not right because he doesn’t cook anymore.  He hasn’t cooked since—

The door opens and shuts, and Clint turns to see Phil step in.  He smiles fondly as the other man neatly hangs his jacket and tucks away his briefcase.  Phil walks straight over to him, a smile on his face.  He kisses Clint soundly.

 They talk warmly of work and family.  Phil’s worrying about the upcoming holiday, and Clint’s talking him down as usual.  He’s handled the Coulson clan before, and he thinks they’re fun.  He’d much rather enjoy the holidays warm and cozy with a bunch of rowdy family members than freezing his fingers off in the middle of nowhere.  Phil always looks chastened when Clint reminds him of this and steps in to pull him close.  Clint wonders how much warmer all those Christmases could have been if Phil had been there to make them better.

 The whole room is warm and bright, and it feels like a dream.

 

~~~

 

“Clint.”

 “Mmph.”  Clint snuffles and burrows his face deeper into the pillow.

 “Clint.” 

 The breath sweeps over his ear, light and warm.  Clint rouses a little.  He slowly registers the weight of an arm thrown over him, warm legs tangled with his own, dry lips pressed against his neck.

 “Mmm?”  He struggles to pull himself out of sleep.  He half rolls unto his back so he can look at the familiar face behind him.  “What is it, babe?” 

 “Hey,” Phil says softly.  “Missed you.”

 Clint drinks in the crags around Phil’s eyes, deep in the mid-night shadows.  A slow smile breaks across his face.

 “ ‘M right here, babe.  Not going anywhere,” he murmurs.

 “But you did, you disappeared from me,” says Phil.  His eyes furrow and he sounds worried.  Clint can feel it in Phil’s chest as he runs a hand up and down the warm skin.

“It’s okay, Phil.  I’m here now.  I’m back.”  Clint leans in and kisses him.

 For a while they lie there, kissing slowly.  Eventually Clint pulls back.

 “Thought I lost you too,” Clint says.  He fingers the puckered edge of the scar that sprawls across Phil’s chest.  He can’t see it properly in the dark, but he can never erase it. 

 “It was all my fault, Phil,” he says.  His hand is tracing the scar like it has a mind of his own—the uneven expanse of scar tissue is everywhere under his fingertips.

 “It was all my fault,” he says again.  His voice is shaking.  He thinks Phil notices because Phil always notices things like that and because he’s reaching out and pulling Clint close.  “I killed you, Phil.  It’s my fault.  I killed you.”

 He’s sobbing now, his chest heaving, and Phil is trying to shush him.  Phil’s warm arms are wrapped around him, a hand rubbing up and down his back trying to comfort him.  There’s a rustle in the corner of the room.  Clint turns to look, and—

 

 

Clint wakes up with a jolt and a gasp.  He’s not in the apartment he shares with Phil; he’s in his shitty little rat hole apartment because Phil _died._ He died six months ago and Clint doesn’t try to sleep there anymore.  He hasn’t even been by in two months.  Not since SHIELD sweepers went through and pulled out everything that was ever Phil.

That’s all right.  Clint doesn’t want to see Phil anyway.  He thinks the agony— _guilt_ — in his chest might swallow him up if he did.

When Clint calms down and gains some control over his senses, he thinks he can smell something in the air.  There’s the hint of an expensive cologne.  But nothing has been bothered in the tiny flat, and Pizza Dog is sleeping undisturbed.  One of his paws twitches in a dream as Clint looks at him.

He sighs and thinks about going back to bed, but sleep is a fucking lost cause.  It always is after he dreams of Phil.  He gets up and finds the bottle of Jack instead.  He gives the dog a nudge so he can sit on his half of the sofa and turns on the TV.  ‘Dog Cops’ sounds pretty damn good at three in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

They’re in the kitchen arguing good-naturedly.  Clint listens to Phil huff and admires his backside when he turns to pull plates out of the cupboard.

“But what are the odds that the Bears would play the Patriots just in time for a national holiday?”  Phil is making that frowney face he always does, and Clint will never tell him how cute it is on a grown man. 

“Aw, you’re just upset because you broke a tooth on the peanut brittle last year,” Clint says with a grin.  He walks over to help Phil dish up the take-out. 

“That peanut brittle could be classified as weapon,” Phil says with a scowl.  “And that’s not the point.  Thanksgiving is supposed to be the holiday where everyone gets together and argues about football for three days straight.  That’s why we avoid Thanksgiving.  Christmas was supposed to be safe!” 

“Avoid is such a strong word.  I prefer ‘sudden government incursion overseas’” Clint says thoughtfully, snagging a pea from Phil’s carton.  “Besides, you know that you and your Dad will root for Chicago, Cathy and Arthur will root for New England, and after the game I’ll spike the punch and we’ll all complain about how much we hate the Giants.” 

Phil grumbles under his breath, but he follows Clint to the sofa easily enough.  They watch two episodes of Supernanny until Clint is sure all the tension’s gone out of him.  Then they switch to the latest episode of Breaking Bad, and Clint’s pretty sure this classifies as one of the best nights of his life.  This is what he misses the most when he’s away on ops or Phil’s neck-deep in paperwork.  Having a whole night to spend together, just the two of them.  He settles into the couch and into the comfortable space at Phil’s side, and just focuses on now.

 

~~~

 

Clint surges out of bed, breath caught tight in his chest.  His eyes are open, but all he can see is blue.  Crushing, ice cold blue, saturating everything in their bedroom, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

Arms wrap around his chest, and it’s Phil, and he just manages to stop himself from clocking his lover in the chest.  Which is something Phil doesn’t need right now, considering he’s still recovering from Loki fucking _stabbing him in the chest_. 

The breath is wheezing in and out of him, and he thinks he’s probably hyperventilating.  Phil is there, wrapped around him, and murmuring something he can’t hear.  But that’s okay because Phil’s here, and he’s always okay when Phil is with him.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Phil’s muttering as he rocks them both. 

“Phil.  Phil,” Clint says.  He feels his eyes burn as tears gather in them.  “It was my fault, Phil.  I killed you, Phil.”

“Shhh.  Shhh, I’m right here, Clint.”

“But you’re not.  You’re not.  I killed you.”  He’s crying now, sobs wracking his chest.  Phil rocks them. 

“Not your fault, Clint.” 

“But I—“ 

“Clint Francis Barton, listen to me.”  Phil wrestles him over and pins him to the bed, looking him straight in the eye. 

“This wasn’t your fault.  Loki did this, not you.”  Phil puts a hand to the wound in his chest and Clint’s follows.  It’s not a scar tonight, just a bloodless gaping hole.  Clint could push his thumb in and feel— 

He pulls his hand away and shakes his head fiercely.

“But I couldn’t fight him.  He climbed inside my head and tore everything out.  And then he took you—“ Clint’s voice breaks, but he carries on anyway, “—he took you away from me.  He killed you.  I was supposed to be there to protect you, but he killed you.”  Clint has to stop, and he shuts his eyes tight against the sobs in his chest. 

“Not your fault, Clint.  I went in there without backup.  _I_ went in there.  And Loki stabbed me.  And I died.  It’s not your fault.” 

Clint sobs on the bed, and slowly Phil lies down, covering him, hiding him from the world outside.  Clint knows it isn’t real and he doesn’t give a damn. 

He hears a stifled sob from the corner, and he looks up.  He has enough time to take in the white shirt with the slender tie and sleek combed back hair, and then— 

 

 

He wakes up, a deep breath shuddering through his chest.  He’s reaching for the gun under the pillow even as he comes to because there are two men in his tiny shitty apartment, and they’re not supposed to be there.  

He’s got the gun leveled on one of them before his eyes really register.  The light’s on over the kitchen sink and Pizza Dog’s cowering by the door. 

“Clint, wait!” 

The voice is familiar, Clint thinks.  The figure is too.  It’s Arthur.  Phil’s little shithead baby brother, Arthur.  The one who always complains about Clint’s cheap taste in beer and trashy t-shirts when Clint visits on the holidays.

When Clint _used to_ visit on the holidays. 

Clint’s gun is trained on the other guy.  Clint thinks he’s probably the heavy hitter.  He’s never seen the man before, but he’s obviously familiar with Arthur.  Probably works on that crew Phil used to talk about.

“What the hell are you doing here, Arthur?”  Clint doesn’t lower his aim.

Arthur wets his lips.  The kid rarely looks nervous, but there’s a first time for everything.

“I had to find out what happened to Phil,” he says. 

“So you broke into my apartment in the middle of the night?” Clint asks.

“Well, we did a bit more than that,” says the second man in a drawling English accent.  “And we’d be happy to explain it, but first let’s put down the weapons and sit down like civilized people.” 

“Who the hell is this?” Clint asks, motioning with the gun and not taking his eyes off the larger man. 

“Eames.  He’s a Forger,” Arthur says at the same time that the man answers with, “Eames, at your service.  Master Forger and thief, wanted on three continents, caught on none. “ 

Clint snorts, unamused.  He slides out of bed and picks up a pair of sweatpants with one hand. 

“Clint, I trust him.  Put the gun away.” 

“I don’t care if he’s the fucking King of England.  You seem to be under some sort of impression that I trust _you_ , Arthur,” says Clint. 

“Look, let’s just put all our guns on the table, have a seat on the couch, and we can all have a nice chat,” Eames says.  He very slowly reaches into his coat and pulls out a handgun.  Clint’s aim switches to Arthur’s heart without looking.  Eames takes several rounds out of the gun and sets all the pieces on the table.  He takes a step back. 

“Now you,” says Clint, gesturing at Arthur. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Arthur mutters, but he doesn’t hesitate to follow suit. 

They both step back and take a seat on the sofa.  Clint pulls the pants on and follows, leaving the gun on the table as he steps past. 

“What are you doing here, Arthur?” he says when they’re all settled.  

“I told you, I had to find out what happened to Phil,” says Arthur. 

“So, what?  You just came in here in the middle of the night and decided to dig around in my head to see what you could find?”  The anger is really setting in now.  Clint can feel it running hot through his veins.  He tries to think if Phil would ever forgive him for hurting his little brother, but then he remembers.  It doesn’t matter what Phil thinks anymore. 

“Fury wouldn’t tell me anything!  I run contracts for him half the year and he still—“ 

“Fury doesn’t tell anybody a damn thing!” Clint shouts, furious.  “Not even if—“ 

He breaks off, practically snarling.  “That doesn’t give you any right to come in here.  You could have just asked me.” 

“You wouldn’t have told me anything!”  Arthur’s showing his age now.  He’s just a damn kid—scared, missing his older brother, and Clint doesn’t have the patience for this right now.  Not ever. 

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have told you anything!  Because there’s nothing to know!  Phil died during the attack on New York, when some fucking aliens decided to fall out of the sky and take over the planet.” 

“That’s not the whole story,” Arthur says, gritting his teeth angrily.  It’s a look Clint had seen on Phil’s face many times, and it makes him boil over.

“Fine!  You want to know what happened?  I did it!  I’m the reason it all went to shit.  Because some alien fell out the sky, and he climbed inside my head.  He took over everything I was and pointed me in the direction he wanted me to go.  I led the attack on our own people.  I was with him for a week, and I gave him everything.  Every weakness we had.  And he stabbed Phil through the chest.”  

Clint realizes that he’s stood up.  He’s been shouting and the blood is pounding in his temples.  Eames is trying to act relaxed, but he looks a little leery.  Pizza Dog has come over and curled up on Clint’s feet consolingly, his tail thumping his distress. Arthur looks stricken.  His shoulders are hunched in and his head is down.  Clint thinks he looks very young. 

Clint sighs.  Runs a hand through his short hair.  He looks down at his feet and then up at Arthur again. 

“He crammed himself inside my head for a week and he took everything.  He made me hurt my friends; he almost took out New York.  And he killed my husband.  And that’s the whole story, Arthur.” 

Arthur’s shoulders shake, but he cries very quietly.  Clint sits down on the couch again and looks away.  Eames absently pets Pizza Dog’s head. 

It’s been a few minutes when Arthur straightens.  His eyes are red, but dry.  His hair combed back like that—it makes Clint’s gut clench.  He looks so much like his brother sometimes.  

“Thank you for telling me,” Arthur says quietly. 

“Maybe you can understand why I don’t like people messing around in my head,” Clint answers. 

“Jesus, Clint, I’m sorry,” says Arthur.  “I just didn’t want anyone else to lie to me.” 

“Too late for that, kid.”

He pauses, thinking.  “You came here twice, didn’t you?”

Arthur twists, looking chagrined.  “I messed it up the first time.  I couldn’t keep it together.”

Clint shakes his head, feeling another flare of anger. 

There’s another pause, and then Eames speaks.  “You know, there’s training you could get.  Learn to be on the defensive when people are climbing around in your head.” 

Clint scowls.  “I’m done with you two shitheads.  Get out of my apartment.”

Eames shrugs and stands.  Arthur is slower.

“You know, I wish I could tell Mom and Dad,” he says. 

Clint sighs again.  “Just tell them he died in the Battle for New York.  He died defending the planet.  That’s enough. 

“Now get the hell out of my house.” 

Eames is already at the door, case in hand.  Arthur follows him, but he stops on the threshold.  Pauses. 

“It’s almost Christmas.  You could…you could come home, you know.  Mom and Dad would like that, I think.” 

“Get out, Arthur.”

The heat’s gone out of Clint’s voice.  Arthur turns then and follows Eames out the door.  It shuts quietly behind them.

 

Clint is left alone.

 


End file.
